He went back to lounging against the cannon, and patted the heavy flank of the great engine of war with a thick and powerful hand. 'Soon enough-soon enough-we will finally break that blockade. Break it into pieces.'
Antonina sighed. Abstractly, she knew that Eon was right. Right, at least, about the dangers of the voyage itself.
A long voyage that had been, and in the teeth of the monsoon's last days. The entire Axumite warfleet had sailed directly across the Erythrean Sea, depending entirely on their own seamanship-and the new Roman compasses which Belisarius had provided them-to make landfall. A voyage which would, in itself, become a thing of Ethiopian legend. Had the negusa nagast not led the expedition personally, many of the Ethiopian sailors might well have balked at the idea.
But, just as Eon and his top officers had confidently predicted weeks before, the voyage had been made successfully and safely. That still left.
A voyage, no matter how epic, is one thing. Fighting a successful battle at the end of it, quite another.
Antonina went back to fretting. Again, her eyes were affixed to the view through the foredeck.
'Silly woman!' exclaimed Eon. 'We are still hours away. That Malwa fleet at Chowpatty is so much driftwood. Be sure of it!'
Again, for a moment, her fears lightened. Eon's self-confidence was infectious.
Such a feat, regardless of what happened with Belisarius' assault on the Sind, would lame the Malwa beast. The Maratha rebellion had already entangled the enemy's best army. With Suppara no longer blockaded, the Romans would be able to pour supplies into Majarashtra. Not only would Damodara and Rana Sanga be tied down completely-unable to provide any help to the larger Malwa army in the Indus-but they might very well require reinforcements themselves. Especially if, after destroying the Malwa fleet at Chowpatty which maintained the blockade of Suppara, the Ethiopian fleet could continue on and.
That 'and' brought a new flood of worries. 'It'll never work,' Antonina hissed. 'I was an idiot to agree to it!'
'It was your idea in the first place,' snorted Ousanas.
'Silly woman!' she barked. 'What possessed sane and sensible men to be swayed by such a twaddling creature?'
* * *
The Roman army made camp that night eight miles further north of the 'battle' ground. North and, thankfully, upwind.
Just before they did so, they came upon the ruins of a peasant village. Bodies were scattered here and there among the half-wrecked huts and hovels.
There was a survivor in the ruins. An old man, seated on the ground, leaning against a mudbrick wall, staring at nothing and holding the body of an old woman in his arms. The woman's garments were stiff with dried blood.
When Belisarius rode up and brought his horse to a halt, the old man looked up at him. Something about the Roman's appearance must have registered because, to Belisarius' surprise, he spoke in Greek. Rather fluent Greek, in fact, if heavily accented. The general guessed that the man had been a trader once, many years back.
'I was in the fields when it happened,' the old man said softly. 'Far off, and my legs are stiff now. By the time I returned, it was all over.'
His hand, moving almost idly, stroked the gray hair of the woman in his arms. His eyes moved back to her still face.
Belisarius tried to think of something to say, but could not. At his side, Maurice cleared his throat.
'What is the name of this village?' he asked.
The old peasant shrugged. 'What village? There is no village here.' But, after a moment: 'It was once called Kulachi.'
Maurice pointed over his shoulder with a thumb. 'Today, we destroyed the army which did this. And now, as is Roman custom, we seek a name for the victory.'
Belisarius nodded. 'Quite right,' he announced loudly. 'The Battle of Kulachi, it was.'
Around him, the Roman soldiers who heard growled their satisfaction. The peasant studied them, for a moment, as if he were puzzled.
Then, he shrugged again. 'The name is yours, Roman. It means nothing to me anymore.' He stroked the woman's hair, again, again. 'I remember the day I married her. And I remember each of the days she bore me a child. The children who now lie dead in this place.'
He stared to the south, where a guilty army was bleeding its punishment. 'But this day? It means nothing to me. So, yes, you may have the name. I no longer need it.'
On the way out of the village, several soldiers left some food with the old man. He seemed to pay no attention. He just remained there, stroking a memory's hair.
* * *
Aide did not speak for some time thereafter. Then, almost like an apology:
If you had been a blacksmith, this would have happened also. Ten times over, and ten times worse.
Belisarius shrugged. I know that, Aide. And tomorrow the knowledge will mean something to me. But today? Today it means nothing. I just wish I could have been a blacksmith.
Chapter 28
Chowpatty
Just after daybreak, the first Malwa ship at Chowpatty was sunk by ramming. Unfortunately, the maneuver was completely unplanned and badly damaged an Ethiopian warship in the process. Coming through the pouring rain into the bay where the Malwa kept their fleet during the monsoon season, the lead Ethiopian warship simply ran over the small Malwa craft stationed on picket duty.
The Malwa themselves never saw it coming. The crew-exhausted by the ordeal of keeping a small ship at sea during bad weather-had been preoccupied with that task. They had no lookouts stationed. The thought that enemy warships might be in the area didn't even occur to them.
As it was, they considered their own commander a lunatic, and had cursed him since they left the docks. Nobody, in those days, tried to actually 'maintain a blockade' during the stormy season. The era when English warships would maintain year-round standing blockades of French ports was in the far distant future.
In times past, once the monsoon came, the Malwa fleet blockading Suppara had simply retired to the fishing town of Chowpatty further south along the coast, which the Malwa had seized and turned into their naval base. There, for months, the sailors would enjoy the relative peace and pleasures of the grimy town which had emerged on the ruins of the fishing village. The fishermen were long gone, fled or impressed into labor. Those of their women who had not managed to escape had been forced into the military brothels, if young enough, or served as cooks and laundresses.
But this monsoon season had been different. The Malwa ruler of southern India-Lord Venandakatra, Goptri of the Deccan-had always been a foul-tempered man. As the strength of the Maratha rebellion had grown, he had become downright savage. Not all of that savagery was rained down upon the rebels. His own subordinates came in for a fair portion of it.
So. the Malwa commander of the Suppara blockade had taken no chances. As preposterous and pointless as it might be, he would keep one ship stationed at sea at all times. Lest some spy of Venandakatra report to the Goptri that the blockade was being managed in a lackadaisical manner-and the commander find himself impaled as several other high-ranked officers had been in the past. Their flayed skins hung from the ceiling of the audience chamber of the Goptri's palace in Bharakuccha.
* * *
